


Ethics

by HandsomeManExpress (DangerousCommieSubversive)



Series: That One High School AU [3]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Ethical Dilemmas, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/HandsomeManExpress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The semester is over, Brad's no longer a student teacher, and that means...something. That means something can happen. With Dean.</p><p>Something's going to happen with Dean.</p><p>Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ethics

_Buzz._ **Dean.** (Brad had changed it from “Daddy” as soon as he'd been able to think straight enough to get into his contacts.) [u thinking about me bby?]

[Dean, stop texting me.] Brad can feel the tip of his nose going red. [I shouldn't even have your number.]

[1 more week and ur *mine*]

The breath goes out of Brad's lungs.

One week until the end of the semester. One week until his practicum is over. And then no more grading papers for a little while, no more inappropriate thoughts about Mr. Helmsley in the middle of lunch, no more dealing with the nightmare that is the wrestling team. And Dean Ambrose is probably going to trap him in an empty classroom and just give him _looks_ until his resolve crumbles completely and he just...falls out of his clothes at Dean's feet.

Dean's been texting him for two months now, ever since the night of homemade stir-fry and...theory. Sometimes nothing more than emoticons, sometimes just a word or two, choppy and sometimes incomprehensible thoughts. Dirty jokes. Flirtation. Sometimes pictures—selfies, pictures of what appears to be the backyard of Dean's house, Seth and Roman. (Once, a blurry picture that was _still_ _quite clearly_ Roman on his back with his head thrown back, Seth between his legs and leaning in to pin him down. _That_ picture had arrived unexpectedly at midnight and Brad had actually _moaned._ ) But also shots of what appeared to be Dean's backyard, pictures of the sky, little off-hand comments of “I hate it here,” and as much as Brad is often afraid of Dean's apparent capacity for cruelty, just as often he's _worried._

Fear. He's afraid of Dean.

But not in a way that makes him want to run away. He just sees Dean and Seth and Roman throwing themselves headfirst at the school administration and wonders why they're doing it, what could be driving them to wreck themselves like this.

 **Dean:** [u should wear that nice tie on the last day of school]

[Dean I own twenty five ties. Which one do you mean?]

 **Dean:** [omg u fucking nerd]

[Dean]

 **Dean:** [the blue one that looks good w/your eyes]

 **Dean:** [the 1 u wore in detention]

[...didn't know you looked at my eyes]

 **Dean:** [why would anyone not look at u have u looked in a mirror lately]

 **Dean:** [u fucker]

 **Dean:** [ur not even hot ur fucking peony]

 **Dean:** [pretty wtf]

 **Dean:** [u should send me a nude]

Brad almost drops his phone. [1. It's school hours and I am *working.* 2. No. 3. Can you *please* wait a week.]

 **Dean:** [make me]

Brad puts away his phone with a little huff and goes back to making a few final notes on the lesson he's going to be presenting next period. His phone buzzes against his leg—more texts from Dean, nobody else texts him—but he ignores it.

Which turns out to be a good thing, since the messages turn out to be so filthy that when he _does_ check them he has to go hide in the bathroom for ten minutes.

* * *

 

And it's the last day of the semester, and Brad stares into the drawer of his dresser and then pulls out the blue tie.

Granted, last day of the semester isn't super-exciting. The second day of finals, so it's a half day, and he's already had his last meeting with his practicum advisor. Final periods go by in a slow, dull blur of scratching pencils while Brad grades the freshman world civ tests and Mr. Helmsley mutters his way irritably through senior essays (which he had, with apparent regret, decided _not_ to inflict on Brad).

The last person at the school he actually says _goodbye_ to is Mr. Regal, who claps him on the shoulder and smiles. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Bradley.”

“You too, Mr. Regal.”

“And I’m glad to see that Ambrose stopped bothering you, he’s more bark than bite.”

Brad grins and lies through his teeth. “Yeah, I think he got bored.” His phone buzzes against his leg.

Mr. Regal looks at him thoughtfully and then says, “Good luck with your studies, Bradley. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” A pause. “Granted, in my younger days I was willing to do quite a lot, so that might not be the best piece of advice.”

* * *

 

A hand shoots out of the chem lab door as he’s heading for the staff section of the parking lot.

_Stumble._

_Thump._

Wall at his back, hands on his shoulders, and Dean’s mouth next to his ear with a sweet little croon of, “Hey, Mr. Maddox. I’ve been thinking about you all _day._ ”

“Really?” Brad suspects his shortness of breath has little to do with the bump against the wall and a _lot_ to do with Dean’s knee, covered in frayed denim, nudging his legs apart.

“Dreamed about you. Woke up thinking about you. Thought about you at breakfast. Thought about you in Roman’s car on the way here.” Dean’s hand drifts ticklishly down his arm and settles at his waist. “ _Mm,_ first final this morning, couldn’t concentrate, I was too busy thinking about you. Finished my second test early, coulda gone home, but I wanted to wait for you.” Both of Dean’s hands are on his waist now, fingers tracing along his belt until they reach the buckle and go still. His breath is hot on Brad’s ear. “So the question is, Mr. Maddox, have you been thinking about me?”

Brad makes a little stupid noise and resists the urge to buck his hips up into Dean’s grip and grind against his thigh. “I’ve been _trying_ to focus on my _job._ ”

“Yeah, but you’re not having such an easy time of it, are you, Mr. Maddox, I bet you were wishing I was _there_ with you. Under your desk, maybe…” Brad knows he’s hit the point of no return here, because Dean unzips his fly and reaches into the front of his pants and all Brad can do is press insistently against the warm hand cupping him and hate the fact that he’s wearing underwear. “I coulda been under your desk sucking you off, and you’d just have to sit there so the whole class wouldn’t know.”

Brad swallows hard and lets out a little whine.

Then, movement out in the hallway. “Excuse me?” The school secretary. “Is someone there?”

  
Dean’s free hand is suddenly clamped over Brad’s mouth, even as with his other hand he tugs down Brad’s underwear. They stand there, barely breathing, still but for Dean’s wicked fingers stroking Brad’s cock.

“Something going on, Vicki?” Principal McMahon. Shit.

  
They can hear Mrs. Guerrero tapping her foot thoughtfully, but then she says, “No, Ms. McMahon. I thought I heard something.”

  
“Let’s get out of here, then, I think after this semester we all deserve a drink.”

  
As soon as the two women have clicked away on their high heels Brad takes a shuddering breath against Dean’s hand and says, “Not here,” even though his hips are pressing forward into Dean’s grip.

  
“You sure, Mr. Maddox? You don’t want me stripping you down right here and bending you over the desk?”

  
Brad bites down on a groan. “We’ll get caught. And before you ask, no, I don’t want that.”

  
Dean grins crookedly at him, zips his pants back up and smooths the fabric down in a way that doesn’t help at all. “Then lead away, baby. Take me home.”

  
There isn’t even an _argument_ about how they're leaving the school; Dean just slides into the passenger’s seat of Brad’s car and talks for the entire drive, a constant stream of ideas and suggestions and descriptions made all the more obscene by his hand at the top of Brad’s thigh. By the time they reach the apartment, Brad’s ears have gone bright red, and it's honestly difficult to walk. He fumbles his keys at the door.

Dean takes them away. “Don’t worry, baby. I can let myself in.” He locks the door behind them, too.

As soon as they're inside, Brad says, “So what did you, what are we—” and then gets cut off as Dean grabs his belt, pulls him close, gives him a wet, filthy kiss, and then starts to walk him backwards towards the couch.

The edge of it hits the back of his legs and he sits with a thump, dizzy with arousal, looking up at Dean’s sideways smirk.

He says, “Dean,” because it's the only thing he can think of to say. His mouth can’t seem to decide on whether it wants to dry out completely or salivate.

“Be a good boy for me, Brad.” Dean undoes his own belt, unzips his jeans. “Open your mouth.”

Brad does as he's told, shaken by unexpected excitement, and Dean Ambrose’s cock slides between his lips.

 _“Oh,”_ Dean said, suddenly breathless. “Oh, baby, I’ve been dreaming about this for weeks. Dreaming about you, baby.” He shifts his stance a bit, runs his fingers through Brad’s hair and keeps his hands on the back of Brad’s head, thrusts in. "Hold on to me, baby, hold on tight."

Brad clings to the waistband of Dean’s pants like a lifeline and sucks, and he hears Dean groan above him.

It isn't romantic, and it shouldn’t be sweet, it's Dean Ambrose fucking his mouth while he drools and breathes through his nose. But in between the sometimes-violent tugs on his hair Dean keeps stroking, softly, combing his fingers through the curls at the nape of Brad’s neck and gasping, “Oh, baby, you’re being so good, baby, you’re so good for me,” little slurred murmurs of encouragement, and Brad is honestly shocked that he hasn’t come in his pants yet.

"Almost there, baby, I’m almost there, you want me to come in your sweet mouth? Or should I get it all over your pretty face?"

It takes a second for Brad to realize that it's an actual question, an actual specific choice for _him_ , and he raises his eyes to meet Dean’s dreamy gaze and tightens his grip on Dean’s waistband and pulls him in _hard._ Dean’s eyelids flutter, he bites his lip, and then Brad feels his muscles bunch a moment before his hips buck forward and he comes on Brad’s tongue.

For a moment Dean doesn’t let go of him. Then he sucks in a breath and shivers, pulling back. His softening cock slips out of Brad’s mouth.

"That’s my baby," he said, sleepily, dropping down to straddle Brad’s lap. "That’s what I like. _Mm,_ that and I like that you’re a mess, I wanna see that again later.” He tips Brad’s chin up gently with two fingers, digging his phone out of his pocket with his other hand. “You wanna smile for me, Brad? Show me what a mess you are?” The camera phone goes off with a little _snap_ before Brad can even argue, and even if he’d wanted to really argue it'd be difficult with Dean’s tongue suddenly in his mouth.

“ _Christ,_ Dean,” he says, once he can. “You are…that was. _Something._ ”

Dean kisses him again. “Better than I ever expected.”

“Yeah, uh. Wow.” There’s _definitely_ still come in his mouth, Brad swallows it and then suppresses a noise when Dean shifts and brushes against the front of his pants. “Um. I’m…going to hell.”

Dean smirks at him. “At least you know you’ve got a ride there.”

Brad stares at him for a moment, processing what he means by that, and then bubbles into hysterical laughter. “Oh my _god,_ what a terrible joke. But seriously, _please_ never let any of the teachers know we’re doing this, I don’t care that I don’t work there anymore, they’ll crucify me.”

“Done deal, I don’t want any of them nosing in my business anyway.” Dean is intent on his mouth. “But anyway. If I’m _remembering_ right I kinda left you hanging a couple months ago and it seemed like that conversation was going to some interesting places. So…” with another minute shift downward, an agonizing, tantalizing slow rub against Brad’s trapped erection, his fingers work into the knot of Brad’s tie and pulls it open, undo the top button of Brad’s shirt so that his neck is exposed, “I _think_ I left off _right_ here.”

And Brad never realized how much he’d been waiting for this, how much he’d been living in anticipation of Dean’s lips finally touching that one sensitive spot on the side of his neck and Dean bites lightly and it feels like _so much_ that he barely even notices that his shirt is being opened button by button. At least, he doesn’t notice it until Dean moves, kisses the hollow of his throat in a way that feels almost _dangerous_ and then starts tracing a line down his chest. He’s so worked up that when Dean finally gets to his cock he barely lasts two minutes.

“ _Oh,”_ he says, his back arching against the couch, and he rests one hand on Dean’s head and covers his face with the other. “Oh my god, Dean.”

Dean looks up at him with a sideways grin, licks his lips, and says, “So are you gonna feed me or what?”

Brad peers down at him through his fingers. “I’m taking advantage of you.”

“Don’t be a dumbass, teach, I’ve been gunning for this since the start of the semester. If anything, _I’m_ taking advantage of _you,_ you are _way_ too pretty to ignore.”

“I’ve wanted to sleep with you for two years. I’m a terrible person.”

“What are we having for dinner?”

“I was…going to make chicken Parmesan?”

“You want me to make salad?”

“Sure.” Brad's hand, the one that's not covering his face, doesn't quite want to leave Dean's hair; he runs his fingers through the soft curls almost aimlessly. “There's...there's stuff in the fridge. But it's...isn't it a little early for dinner?”

The feeling of hands on his crotch makes him shudder, but Dean's just tucking him back into his pants and zipping up the fly, Dean's own zipper goes up a moment later, and then the bane of his heated dreams for two months now is climbing into his lap and resting a curly-haired head on his shoulder. “Yeah, well, I figure we can watch a movie or something first. That sound good to you, baby?”

“Don't call me that,” Brad says weakly as he reaches for the television remote. “I can't think straight when you call me that.”

Dean's laughter is warm on the side of his neck. “Why do you think I do it?”

* * *

 

“Look, why me?” Brad says, once they’ve got a movie going and Dean is still draped insistently over his lap with his arms around Brad’s neck. “I still haven’t figured that out, why single me out?”

Dean leans his head on Brad’s shoulder. “You wanna know the truth, baby?”

“Well, yeah, that’s why I’m asking.”

“I’m bored and you’re pretty and I like how you blush. And I always wanted to fuck a teacher.”

“…that’s _it?_ ”

“What, you want me to make some big thing out of it? You asked for the truth. _Plus_ you cook good, that helps, and it gets me outta my fucking _dad’s_ house.” He grins against the side of Brad’s neck. “I like you. You’re different.”

“Different from _who?_ ”

“I dunno. Everyone. You’re softer. It’s cute.”

There’s a long mostly-silence with the television on, because Brad’s not really sure what to say except, finally, “Well. Um. Thank you? I guess? I like you too.”

“So did you blow Mr. Helmsley or what, people were trying to figure that out all semester.”

“ _Jesus,_ Dean. I—no. No, I didn’t. Not that I didn’t ever _want_ to.”

“I tried to hit on Mr. Regal once and he practically smacked me across the entire room, it was awesome.”

“Oh my god. Mr. Regal?”

“What? He’s hot for an old dude.”

“I mean. True. He’s got great hair.”

* * *

 

They have chicken Parmesan. They watch _Hot Fuzz._

Then Dean pins Brad face down on his own bed and fucks him until he’s gasping, filling his ears with little slurry murmurs while he claws at the sheets. Grabs his phone and takes a picture of the two of them afterward, sweaty and spent and naked, and Brad says, “Ok, seriously, what’s with the pictures?”

Dean shrugs against his back. “I space out a lot. Taking pictures means I can remember what’s up. Also we look hot and I’m trying to piss off Roman.”

“Why, what’d Roman do?”

“Nothing, he’s just really fucking fun in bed when he’s pissed. I mean, so’s Seth, but he can’t pick me up and throw me.”

“That’s…that’s definitely very…”

“You thinking about him picking you up and throwing you?”

“…mmmmmaybe.”

“I’d tell ‘em to come over but your bed’s kinda tiny. Maybe I’ll drag you to my place tomorrow, get them over. We can have a _slumber party._ Watch Punisher movies. Play Spin the Bottle. Roman and Seth might even let you braid their hair.”

Brad snorts.

“Don’t knock it, Seth’s hair’s way easier to grab when it’s braided.”

“If you're trying to make Roman mad by texting him pictures of us, though...aren't they going to be jealous?”

“Only that they didn't get to be here.”

“Oh.” Brad shifts nervously, and then relaxes suddenly when Dean drapes an arm over him and rests his forehead against the nape of Brad's neck. “That's...good, I guess?”

“You having regrets on me, baby?”

Brad thinks about it for a moment and then blinks and says, “You know what, no. No. This is good. I like this.”

“Good.” Dean yawns against his skin. “Because fuck if it wasn't worth waiting for.”


End file.
